Then he turned the face of the bill to the light. His pencil could hardly find a place to put his name in the long catalogue. He noted a sum scrawled in red ink: “$11.75.”
“Wha-what's this?” he said, faintly.
The surprised waiter explained with all suavity: “The price of the breakfast. If it is not added correctlee—”
Thropp added it with accurate, but tremulous, pencil. The total was correct, if the items were. He explained:
“But I'm a regular—er—roomer here. I pay by the week.”
“Yes, sir—if you will sign, it will be all right.”
“But that don't mean they're going to charge me for breakfast? 'Levum dollars and seventy-five cents for—for breakfast?—for a small family like mine is? Well, I'd like to see 'em! What do they think I am!”
The waiter maintained his courtesy, but Adna was infuriated. He put down no tip at all. He lifted his family from the table with a yank of the eyes and snapped at the waiter:
“I'll soon find out who's tryin' to stick me.—you or the proprietor.”
The old man stalked out, followed by his fat ewe and their ewe lamb. Adna's very toothpick was like a small bayonet.